The Twentieth Day of January

by Ted Allbeury

  “Let’s say it was from gambling, Mr. Nolan?”

  Nolan raised his eyebrows. “You want that to go on the record, Mr. Oakes?”

  “What record would that be?”

  Nolan sat silently for a few moments and then spoke quite softly.

  “The record of a conspiracy to distort the due process of an election.”

  “And what election would that be?”

  “The election for State Governor of Connecticut when Logan Powell became Governor.”

  Oakes leaned back in his chair, no longer smiling.

  “Maybe I should inform you, Mr. Nolan, that I have been elected Senator for this State, and as such …”

  His eyes were angry as Nolan cut off his flow.

  “I am aware of the election results, Mr. Oakes, but you will remember, I am sure, Article 20 Section I. You are not Senator for this State until the third of January.”

  Oakes’s fist came down on the desk-top and the telephone tinkled from the vibration. Saliva bubbled on his thin lips as he shouted, “Are you threatening me, Mr. Nolan?”

  “In no way. I am asking for your help as an individual, as a lawyer, and someone deeply concerned with the Constitution, to make a report on what seems to be a serious matter.”

  With the bluff of his anger called, Oakes leaned forward. His face was relaxed, and his mouth was attempting a smile.

  “You tell me you are investigating a strike that might, and I repeat might, have influenced, not decided, a comparatively unimportant election some years ago. Is this perhaps getting out of proportion, Mr. Nolan?”

  He leaned back as if he were in court. He was resting his case. His mouth twisted in the near grimace of victory.

  “It got out of proportion when three people were murdered for what they knew about it.”

  Oakes’s mouth fell open, his surprise and shock obviously genuine.

  “Who has been murdered?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Siwecki and Maria Angelo.”

  “But surely they were nothing to do with this.”

  “Siwecki was the union negotiator and Maria Angelo had background information. That is why they were killed.”

  “But who in God’s name would do that?”

  “You have no idea yourself, Mr. Oakes?”

  He shook his head in bewilderment.

  “A union quarrel. That’s what I put it down to.”

  “And the girl? Miss Angelo?”

  Oakes looked disturbed and shifty.

  “I thought perhaps that was a crime of passion.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “I gathered there were some flowers sent. A bunch of roses.”

  “I sent her the roses, Mr. Oakes.”

  “Oh. I see. I didn’t mean … er …”

  “To say ‘thank you’ for helping me with my inquiry.”

  Oakes was silent, his face turned towards the window, his hands fiddling with the pipe and the tobacco pouch. Nolan sat quietly, watching him. He knew from experience that Oakes was very near to talking and he prayed that nobody would disturb them and that no call came on the telephone.

  Finally, Oakes turned to face Nolan.

  “I’d like to speak to a colleague of mine. I shan’t be long. Maybe I can help you.”

  He stumbled as he stood up, and his steps as he walked to the door were uncertain.

  The secretary brought Nolan coffee and stayed talking. He guessed that it was to prevent him listening to the voice in the outer office. It was fifteen minutes before Oakes came back into the office. He looked uneasy but calmer. The secretary left as Oakes settled himself behind his desk. He put his hands palm down on the desk. People under interrogation often did that when they were going to confess. He looked up at Nolan.

  “I’ve had a word with a colleague of mine in New York, Mr. Nolan. I needed his agreement. Am I right in thinking that you want to establish if that strike was deliberately contrived to give Powell the nomination?”

  “Yes. If that is the truth.”

  “Are we just talking or does my statement become evidence?”

  “That could be necessary. But your co-operation would be seen as mitigating.”

  “You’re asking me to face criminal proceedings, be debarred from practising law and to cease being Senator. That is asking a lot, Mr. Nolan.”

  Nolan sighed. “Tell me what you know, Mr. Oakes, off the record. If it is what I think it is, I shall eventually want a written statement—signed and witnessed. But before it would be used I should ask the Chief Justice to speak to you and give you certain assurances.”

  Oakes looked amazed. “You mean Elliot?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God.”

  “Who gave you the money to buy Haig stock?”

  “Andrew Dempsey. He was Powell’s campaign manager.”

  “Why was it necessary to buy stock?”

  “So that I could pressure Haig to appoint Powell as arbitrator. In the event it wasn’t necessary. He agreed straight away.”

  “Did Dempsey say why he wanted Powell nominated or elected?”

  Oakes shrugged. “Just that they were old friends and he wanted Powell to win.”

  “Did you know that Siwecki had been fixed, too?”

  “Yes. Dempsey and I had a meeting with him. I paid the money to him and the union. And I paid him monthly until his death.”

  “Why did you go along with this?”

  “They promised me business and cash. I needed it badly at the time.”

  “What about the payments to you from Gramercy Realtors and the Halpern Trust?”

  Oakes’s face went white, and his hand trembled as he put down his pipe.

  “Those payments were nothing to do with the strike business. I assure you of that.”

  Nolan sighed. “I need to know, Mr. Oakes. I need to eliminate that matter from my investigation.”

  “And it won’t be used?”

  “Not if it isn’t relative.”

  “Have you heard of Mr. de Jong?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “He’s Vice-Chairman of the Republican Party.”

  “National Vice-Chairman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “He owns those companies and the payments were made to me to keep him in the picture about Dempsey and Powell.”

  “What kind of things do you report to him?”

  “Anything and everything.”

  “Was he a Powell supporter?”

  “Not in the early days.”

  “When did he become a supporter?”

  “At the Convention.”

  “Did you tell him about the strike business?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “That was when the payments started. But he’s not a man who shows his reaction. Not to me, anyway.”

  “Was it de Jong who you telephoned just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You asked him if you should answer my questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that I should co-operate with you.”

  “Apart from the de Jong payments, will you make the statement and sign it?”

  Oakes nodded. “Yes.”

  The secretary was brought in to take down Oakes’s statement and when she had typed it she came back in to witness Oakes’s signature. After she had gone Nolan folded the document and put it in his pocket.

  “Are you married, Mr. Oakes?”

  “We don’t live together, but we’re still married.”

  “Would you be prepared to take a holiday?”

  Oakes looked surprised.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I could arrange for you to have a secure place in Florida. Otherwise I shall arrange police protection for you here and at your home. They’ll be in plain clothes.”

  “You mean somebody could …”

  He couldn’t bring himself to finish the
sentence, and Nolan stepped in.

  “It’s possible.”

  “I think I’d better stay.”

  “Fine. May I use your telephone?”

  “Of course.”

  Nolan telephoned the house and arranged the guard detail, and then waited in Oakes’s outer office until the first man came and took over.

  Nolan was making notes in his office at the house when the call came through from New York. As he heard the garbled speech he pressed the scrambler button.

  “Nolan.”

  “Did you hear what I said, sir?”

  “No. Is that Joe?”

  “No, sir, it’s Steve Langfeld. I’ve got bad news, sir.”

  “Go on, then.” Nolan was aware of the hesitation in his own voice.

  “Joe Steiner’s dead, sir. He was shot in his hotel bedroom.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Were the police called in?”

  “No. Not so far. But the hotel manager is very jittery. I hoped you’d speak to him. I’ve put two men there.”

  “Any indications?”

  “The shell’s 9mm, and a caller ten minutes earlier has been identified by the reception clerk. It was one of our friends.”

  “Give me the manager’s number. I’ll phone him, and I’ll leave straight away. I’ll be at LaGuardia in about seventy minutes. Send a car for me.”

  The manager accepted Nolan’s request without argument. The assurance that there would be no mention of the affair in the press tipped the balance.

  Joe Steiner had one living relative, a brother. He lived in Paterson and was a sports goods dealer. Nolan drove through the night and arrived at three am. The local police had been asked to alert the brother. Minimum details to be given. He wanted, if possible, no publicity about Steiner’s death.

  A man in a red tartan shirt stood in the lighted doorway as Nolan crunched in the snow from the garden gate.

  “Pete Steiner?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Could I come in for a moment?”

  The big man shrugged and walked into the hallway and through to the living-room as Nolan followed.

  “Mr. Steiner, I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “About Joe, huh?”

  “Yes. He’s dead. He was shot.”

  “So why tell me?”

  “You’re down on his papers as next of kin.”

  “Joe and I ain’t spoke a word together in ten years. We didn’t get on.”

  “I see. You know how he was employed?”

  “Some gov’ment agency in Washington, he said.”

  Nolan suddenly felt tired and cold. The man’s indifference was unexpected. He had come out with his arguments carefully marshalled. But Joe Steiner’s only living relative didn’t care that he was dead. Nolan suddenly needed to leave, but he had to go through the routine.

  “Have you any objection to Joe being buried in the cemetery at Arlington?”

  “Don’t make any difference to me, mister, where he’s buried. Was there any effects?”

  Nolan could feel the blood rush to his head, and he breathed deeply before he answered.

  “A few, Mr. Steiner. We’ll send them to you in the next few days.”

  The man folded his arms.

  “Better leave it a coupla weeks. I’m going for a week’s fishin’ from Sunday.”

  “We’ll do that, Mr. Steiner. Goodnight.”

  “OK. You wanna cawfee or sump’n?”

  “No thanks. I’ll get on my way.”

  Nolan stopped the car a hundred yards from the house. He sat with his face in his hands and saw the hotel bedroom. Joe Steiner had gone to the door of his room wearing just trousers and shoes, his face half shaved, half lathered. The hole in his big white chest was neat and round and there had been no blood. Just a bruise round the small indentation. The blood had come from the hole in his throat where the flexible tube of his windpipe had been ripped open. His shoulder holster was draped over the cold tap, and his small two-way radio was on the bedside table. And the doctor had had to stitch Joe’s eyelids to keep them closed.

  As the winter wind howled round the car there was just the noise of the fan and Nolan’s tears.

  CHAPTER 15

  Nolan slept until ten at the safe-house. He stood at the window of his room and looked out at Central Park. The snow was thick on the sidewalks and there was a golden slush like brown sugar on the street. The sky was leaden, and the cars and trucks still had their lights on.

  He breakfasted slowly, reading the night’s reports and half listening to the radio news bulletin.

  The Dow-Jones had gone up on a White House rumour that there would be a $6 billion public works programme. But in specific areas like aircraft and electronics share prices had fallen sharply in expectation of defence budget cuts. Some commentators were forecasting that the cuts would be more like wounds. A warehouse fire near Flatbush Avenue was not yet under control but it was reckoned that the American ski team on its way to Val d’Isère had never been stronger. The Vice-President-Elect was expected to make a trip to European capitals immediately after the inauguration.

  When he had finished eating he called for the tapes of the tap on the girl’s telephone and laced them up on the Revox. There was very little traffic except for the appointments made with her from a series of spurious calls by Nolan’s men to ensure that there was no interruption in the operation.

  At four o’clock he pressed the elevator button for the top floor of the apartment block on 38th, and a few seconds later he was outside the door of P4.

  He pressed the bell and waited. The girl who opened the door was breathtakingly beautiful, even more beautiful than in the photographs taken by the surveillance team. She was wearing an emerald-green towelling bath-robe that clashed vibrantly with her startlingly blue eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Jennifer Larsen?”

  “It’s appointments only.” And the door swung to. Nolan’s foot prevented it from closing.

  “My name is Nolan, I’m from NYPD. I’d like to talk to you.”

  He saw her hesitate, and he thrust forward an NYPD identity card and badge. She leaned forward to check the photograph and then looked up at his face.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I think it would be better if you allowed me to come inside.”

  Slowly she opened the door and stood aside as he walked in. He smiled.

  “My apologies for the wet, but it’s still snowing.”

  She shrugged. “Take your coat off. Hang it in the closet.”

  When he walked back into the living-room the girl was sitting on a large settee, her legs curled under her, and a drink in her hand.

  “Help yourself,” she said, and gestured with her glass to the whisky bottle and glasses.

  “I’m hoping that you can help us, Miss Larsen.”

  “Jenny. Just call me Jenny. What’s it all about?”

  “Do you know a Mr. Dempsey? Andrew Dempsey?”

  She reached for a pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it with a match. When there was a cloud of smoke between them she spoke.

  “No.”

  “Do you know your rights, Jenny?”

  “Jesus, am I supposed to know every guy who comes here?”

  The blue eyes were angry and defiant.

  “I’ll have to ask you to get dressed, Jenny, and come with me.”

  She watched the smoke curling up from her cigarette.

  “Are you charging me?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. I just want you to answer a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Mr. Dempsey.”

  “What about him?”

  “Why does he come here?”

  She turned her head and closed one eye against the cigarette smoke as she looked at him reflectively.

  “You know what I do, mister. That’s why he comes here.”

  “Nothing more than that?�
��

  “Like what?”

  “Why does Kleppe come here?”

  “Kleppe’s never … who’s Kleppe?”

  “He phoned you this morning, Jenny. He said he was sending a man round here with something for Dempsey.”

  The big blue eyes looked shocked. “Jesus. You’re tapping my phone.”

  “Tell me about Dempsey, Jenny. It’s better for you if you do.”

  She pushed a swatch of long blonde hair behind her shoulder and leaned forward to stub out her cigarette. The bath-robe slid from her shoulders so that she was naked to the waist. It was deliberate and effective, no man was going to be completely impervious to the two full mounds and their spiky pink tips. And when his eyes went back to her face she said softly, “Are you a tit man, mister?”

  He half smiled. “I’ve never been sure, Jenny. I think I’m kind of an all-rounder. My name’s Nolan, by the way, Pete Nolan.”

  She nodded as she must have nodded to hundreds of men, he thought, as they tried to establish their shrunken egos. She lit another cigarette and as she blew the smoke aside she turned to look at him.

  “I’ve got two hours, Pete. You could do a lot in two hours.”

  “Why have you got two hours?”

  “My first date gets here at 6.30.”

  “Jenny, all your dates today are policemen. We didn’t want to have problems in that area.”

  She stood up and walked to the phone and then waited with the receiver to her ear, her fingers poised over the buttons. Then she put the receiver down slowly and turned to him, white-faced.

  “The bastards. He said, ‘New York Police Department, can I help you.’ ”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Jenny, and let’s talk.”

  She sprawled on the big settee, and closed her eyes as she spoke.

  “OK. Talk.”

  “How long have you known Dempsey?”

  “About ten years.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I was sixteen when I met him. It was at a party at Kleppe’s. Two guys got me smashed and took me in one of the bedrooms. They were taking turns to screw me, and Dempsey came in and chucked them out. I lived with him for about four months and he lent me five grand to set up in this place.”